


War of Change

by verywickedwitch



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Student/Teacher, Gen, Psychologists & Psychiatrists, Teacher-Student Relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-08
Updated: 2016-03-08
Packaged: 2018-05-25 13:42:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6197251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/verywickedwitch/pseuds/verywickedwitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once Margot Verger doesn't come to meet her psychiatrist. Her brother Mason visits Dr. Lecter instead. And the first impression of Verger seems to have been deceiving...</p>
            </blockquote>





	War of Change

My wrist-watch is counting the time with barely audible steps of its hands, second by second. The sparks of the fire which crackle in unison with them are reflecting on a glass dial, their distorted long shadows are covering a blank sheet of paper along with my drawing.

Time, for some reason, is always compared to water – perhaps in memory of clepsydras, previously used in Babylon before the sand-glasses. Water bit by bit was flowing from one of the vessels which constituted a part of this ancient invention, through the tiny hole at the bottom of it, into another – time was running out.

For me, time does not flow; it rustles like the ancient folio’s finest parchment pages turning by the faint breeze. It reminds me not of water, but of air. A water source may dry out, but air is inexhaustible – just like time. However, one day both of those things come to the end for all of us – mere mortals, whose existence is limited to a temporal scope – and, by the way, usually at the same time. Some day the end of time will come for me, but meanwhile I allow myself to take it away from others, ending their lives when I need it. The number of days of my stay on this Earth will not increase and will not decrease because of this – they will remain unchanged. But nothing compares to the sense of power derived from the control of other people's time and air, the opportunity to decide when and to whom they dry out. And I must admit, I like it.

The tip of the pencil leaves a mark on the paper that is too wide: the lead has become blunt, and its sharpness needs to be restored before further completion of the sketch. I get up from my chair and head to a small desk where I usually draw. Today I suddenly felt an urge to change my habit and decided to draw my sketches not using the light of the lamp, but facing a natural source of light – fire, trapped in the marble walls of the classic fireplace. I had to take a hardback edition of a medical encyclopaedia with me, which served as a substitute for the ideal surface of the desk. Among the pile of pencils of varying degrees of hardness, which are indicated in microscopical numbers near the unsharpened edge, there rests a standart anatomical scalpel. It is precisely the tool I need: I never use the sharpener, as it does not achieve the desired sharpness. I take the thin surgical knife and begin sharpening the pencil. Pieces of wood shell and black lead fall upon the carefully placed piece of paper below, which is going to become a shroud for these tiny remains later; they will soon go to their final destination – the trash can. I can’t stand untidiness, so I always avoid congestion of even the slightest bit of litter in the house.

The loud insistent knock on the door makes me break away from my work and take a quick look at my watch. It’s a quarter to seven. I set aside the pencil and scalpel to pick up my journal. On the page with the current date, where the anchor of silky ribbon is dropped, there are a few notes, and I lead the forefinger to the last, which says: "19:00 Margot Verger." The knock repeats, and I find myself thinking that such behavior is highly dissimilar to my patient. She arrives up to five minutes before the appointed time, so when she meets the locked door, she wouldn’t force her way inside so emphatically, but rather wait patiently for my invitation.

I cross the room in measured steps, to rest my hand upon the round door-knob – my fingers lie on its smooth, cold surface and squeeze this convex part of a massive oak door, just as confidently as they had previously squeezed the scalpel that sharpened the pencil lead. I turn the door-knob clockwise and pull the door towards me, at the same time pulling a frostily smiling mask of politeness over my face. The door opens, both beckoning and reveiling the eyes of an expectant patient in the waiting room, a reward of his expectations – the doctor who is always affable, always glad (at least, such an impression is formed by sight) to meet him. But no, on the other side of the doorway there stands not my patient, but a stranger I am seeing for the first time. Nevertheless, I know exactly who this person is.

– Mr. Verger, I presume, – I say in my habitially unemotional tone, but at the same time rasing my eyebrows, and slightly widening my eyes. These mannerisms occur for no longer than a moment, as genuine astonishment is only fleeting. I portray the surprise, but I do not feel it. It was only a matter of time before Mason Verger, my loyal patient’s brother, would come to visit me. I expected it. I take a step back and gesture at my guest to enter. – Please, come in.

– Margot wasn’t able to attend today’s appointment, – a young man gestures his hands whilst stating the obvious.

He glances around the interior of my office space curiously, whilst my gaze remains locked on him. The first thing that attracts my attention is the undeniable family likeness – as well as Margot Mason, he is Caucasian with a Baltic twist. But unlike his sister, who is always accurate and always elegant, the young man is rather dishevelled in his appearance. Unruly tufts of blond hair stick out in every direction, but I am sure this is their natural state, rather than an artificially created, artistic mess, that is all too fashionable and popular among today’s youth. A mischievous gleam flashes in his blue eyes every now and then, as if Verger is currently making his mind up about whether to play another prank – which, incidentally, cannot be excluded. A child that put on his father’s costume and cologne for his "adulthood" to be more convincing. Though that costume suits him perfectly, – it’s probably custom-made, like most of my own costumes, – and the aroma of his cologne is refined enough to sweeten my olfactory receptors. The fact remains, Mason Verger is just a child. A grown-up child, who, moreover, cannot boast of being well brought up.

– I had noticed, – I say delicately, without taking my eyes from my ill-mannered visitor, who  unceremoniously dropped into one of the chairs in the center of the room, before I had time to offer him a seat personally. – Is your sister not feeling well?

I sit down in an empty chair opposite to Mason, my hands clasped in a lock at breast height, elbows resting on the leather-covered armrests. A slight smile washes over my face, designed to hide a growing sense of hostility; usually triggered by a lack of manners, which is my interlocutor’s undoubtedly distinguishing feature.

– In fact, she was not able to come to you for an appointment sensu stricto, because she broke both of her legs! – Blondie clasps his hands with truly childish delight and makes a short laugh, which sharply strikes my eardrums. – Little Margot fell from a horse that kicked her off. I don’t know how many times I’ve told her about spending more time with her family and not with those stupid animals – he purses his lips in displeasure and turns his head away, resting a vacant gaze on some curtains that lay against one of the windows. This lasts only a few seconds, after which Mason turns his face, with childishly plump cheeks, to me again and favors me with a wide smile. – Well, since she was unable to appear at this session, which by the way I pay for, I figured that I have every right to replace her and finally get to know the doctor, that provides such a beneficial effect on the mental health of my dearest sister.

– Send my best regards and sincere wishes for a speedy recovery to Miss Verger, – another chilly cliched phrase spills out of my mouth; a phrase which is supposed to be a warm, comforting response to his rather unfortunate news, according to etiquette. – I hope that in the near future Margot’s state of health will allow us to continue therapy.

– Oh, I'm afraid it will be a great while until she will be able to return to your therapy, doctor, – utters a young man with regret in his voice, but no noticeable signs of compassion on his face. He has hardly experienced a similar emotion towards his sister, or anyone else for that matter. Well, it comes as no surprise; having such a close acquaintance with the slaughter of large artiodactyls undoubtedly left its mark on the psyche of this individual as far back as his childhood. – Unless you agree to visit her at home.

Mason makes himself comfortable in a chair adopting the position named "american four" – one of quite widely spaced legs lies perpendicular to the other. His fingertips are put together; "spire", which they constitute of his palms, facing up. This means Verger is inclined to be bellicose, and he’s not going to leave my house with a negative response to his offer. He has already made my mind up for me. Such ignorance. This grown-up child is not only rude, but also uncompromisingly capricious.

– Perhaps, I can manage to make some changes in my schedule, – I say, shrugging my shoulders. Why not? I'm always open to new experiences, and access to the Verger’s residence can be useful for me. I get up from my armchair to stand behind it, gently tapping its surface with my fingers. – Can I offer you something to drink, Mason? And we will discuss the details of Margot’s further treatment, considering such unfortunate circumstances.

– I doubt whether your collection of alcohol includes a cocktail called "You should’ve taken a chocolate, Margot", Dr. Lecter. I invented its unique formulation myself. Forty milliliters of dry martinis, the same amount of gin and a drop of my sister’s tears, – Mason’s rough, husky laughter rises grandly through the silence of my office again.

– In nature, there are several species of moth, for example, Madagascar moth Hemiceratoides hieroglyphica and Mecistoptera griseifusa, which drink the tears of birds and even some of the large animals at night. They fill the deficiency of liquid in their body in such a way, – I make a small pause, completing the sentence, to focus on the following question. – What is your reason for doing the same thing?

– Have you just compared me to a small winged pest, Doctor? – it seems that blondie has even been taken aback momentarily, coming out with his suggestion. My negative nod calms his incipient indignation, and before I have time to say anything, Verger unleashes a tirade in response to my question: – I regard the tears as a divine gift. Like manna from heaven. It’s just a sin to waste such a blessing. Have you ever tasted someone's tears? Go on, give it a try. Such a gourmet as you should evaluate it.

Oh, I already did. I evaluated that elegance, which was not so easy to discern at first sight because of rudeness and arrogance, all huddled together one on the other disorderly. Rarest case when my initial impression was apparently deceptive. Perhaps Mason Verger is much more talented than it seems at first glance. He just needs to be shown the right path, he needs to be directed... what a tempting opportunity, so difficult to refuse.

– Oenophile, – I correct my interlocutor and give an explanation in response to his puzzled glance: – Oenophile is a more precise definition for the amateur who loves and appreciates wine. How about a glass of the Italian collection _La Scolca Gavi d'Antan_ harvested in 2000? Great buttery flavor with a hint of fruit and sourness.

– I usually do not change my taste preferences, Doc ... – Mason says wistfully. Doc? Did I really hear this unceremonious form of address? – But, as my Dad liked to say, it’s good to keep old habits, however, it’s also necessary to try something new.

I nod and leave my office to go down to the cellar for a bottle of wine, which I won after a long bidding war at an auction. Along the way, I keep thinking about the uninvited guest I’ve left and analyzing the impressions of my acquaintance with him. Oh what mixed feelings he evokes in me!.. On the one hand, I have an urge to take a scalpel from the table and cut Verger’s tongue in two halves in a single, precise movement – then it would be more in line with the poisonous words, pronounced with the help of it. On the other hand, this young man, despite his openly boorish behavior, – inner voice tell me that it is intentional ... what game are you playing, Mason? – has a certain charm, a hidden talent that I could set free and brew to perfection…

When I come back with a bottle of _La Scolca Gavi d'Antan_ and two glasses, I discover my fair-haired visitor’s absence. He has left without saying goodbye? How rude of him. But should this be surprising?

I learn that I was wrong about him again, when I turn to the table to put down the no longer needed vessels – with and for wine. On top of a pile of sheets with drawings, my current sketch lies. Pencil image of Alexander the Great riding an elephant, which was taken from the Persian army. I did not have time to finish the silhouette of the animal, distracted by a knock on the door, but Mason turned out to be impudent enough to do it for me. Instead of a Proboscidea mammal on the sketch, completed not by me, there flaunts a clumsy shape of, apparently, combat swine... I wonder, whether the author was aware of the fact that in antiquity combat swine had been really successfully used against elephants, forcing the ast ones to bound away in all directions and tread down their own soldiers with their scream. Or is it simply a display of narcissism, coupled with egocentrism, in an attempt to identify himself with the famous Macedonian ruler? I look below the image, where the caption, which serves as a farewell, says: " _Excuse me, urgent business has forced me to leave without waiting for the promised treats. You know, it was not the best of your drawings, Dr. Lecter. Till I fixed it. MV_ "

What an insolent fellow, I think to myself, crumpling the hand-drawn miniature, spoiled by Verger, and filling a quarter of the glass with sparkling golden-yellow wine. He needs to be reeducated. I wonder what he could’ve possibly got out of this.


End file.
